


The Burden of the Living

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [17]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Agness dies, but doesn't, and Feferi is terribly apologetic about the whole affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burden of the Living

It wasn’t meant to go this way, you think, vaguely annoyed with the reality of it. You don’t want to die, in general; you’ve never been big on dying. But you really don’t want to die like this, if you’ve got no other choice but to die. This… messy, awkward, shitty way, blood everywhere and the last thing you’ll ever see the look of horror on someone’s face. This wasn’t meant to be how you go, you think a bit more forcefully, gasping for breath and hating the way your throat feels raw and your airsacks burn and echo wetly with every attempt. You want Russel’s way, if you must go anyway. You want the quiet, tired, dignified way. You want privacy and silence and just time running out. 

The Empress reaches out to hold you, and you hate that, because there’s blood everywhere and it’s gross and filthy and she shouldn’t be debased like that, least of all by you. She moves a hand to place it on the wound, and then pulls back, hesitant, and you wonder if she’s grossed out. You’d be. You were never the best at handling gore, for all you spent the first half of your life herding scientists who excelled at nothing but gore, and the occasional display of brilliancy in utterly useless results. 

“Agness,” she says, urgent and hysterical, and you feel the urge to reach out and shove her away, because goddammit, you’re the one who’s dying, not her, she doesn’t get to be hysterical about this. “Agness, listen to me.” 

Her eyes are pretty, from up close. You never really noticed before, despite the fact you seem to have befriended her somehow, after politics happened and she was not an Empress. Because afterwards, when the tiara was back on her forehead, she’d seek you out, sometimes, whenever the _Morrigan_ would enter the same sector the _Dream Chaser_ was in, and she’d invite you out for tea. And somehow that became another part of your life, even though you’re just a troll and she’s the Empress of all trollkind. And she’s an idiot, dear god, a big one, but you like her and she likes you and she’s the Empress, so you never call her that. Even if you want to, sometimes. You think she likes sitting with you, drinking tea and listening to your stories. You’re old now – but not old enough, you snarl at the thought, not gone yet, you have time still, you must! – and you have a lot of stories to tell. You never thought you’d live long enough for that, or that you’d ever find someone who’d want your stories at all. But you are and she does, and now you’re ruining it all by dying in her arms. 

“Do you want to die?” Feferi asks, eyes wide and lower lip trembling, pressing a hand to the gaping hole in your chest. “Agness?” 

And it’s so unfair, too, you think, staring at her pretty, pretty eyes and trying to keep yourself together. You have an inventory half done, back in the ship, and your Captain will fret and whine and hiss and bitch about this, because things will get hectic, when they replace you, and he won’t know how to adjust. He’s terrible, your Captain, a hulking beast of a troll that doesn’t understand how the world works. And if you’re gone, you don’t trust anyone to replace you in the things that really matter. Anyone can bullshit an audit, despite what Eridan might say, but who will sit with him and use small words until he understands why he’s being an idiot and should shut up? And Eridan! Eridan will be sad, when you’re gone. Odessa will cry, and you won’t forgive yourself, for making your Mistress sad. But mostly, you think, you will not like being dead, because it seems boring and tedious, and you have a lot of things pending, yet. So many things left to do and look after… 

“Should I—“ She’s so pretty, your Empress. So pretty and so fucking _dumb_ , sometimes. “Agness, I—“ 

“No!” You snarl, once her words actually sink in, and you fear you would actually smack her, if you weren’t weak and loose-limbed, what with the whole dying thing. “I don’t want to die! I don’t—“ 

And she smiles, for some reason, which makes you angrier and sadder, but then she presses hard on your chest, and there’s light that burns and hurts worse than dying, somehow. You scream and scream, voice rising in a furious wail, because this is somehow worse, and you take it back, you don’t want this anymore. You want quiet and release and some other poetic crap about death that maybe you weren’t dead enough to appreciate yet. Then the light dies out, and the pain has the gall to slam into you one last time, kicking you in the back of the teeth hard enough it forces you upright. 

You sit there a moment, half in the Empress lap, but that can wait until you finish processing the fact you’re not actually dead. 

You take one breath, then another. Then in the background, your slime monstrosity burps loudly as it finishes digesting the hapless fool that tried to kill the Empress and botched it up so badly he killed _you_ instead. Except he didn’t. 

Okay. 

“What,” you say, slow and measured, turning to the Empress with a narrowed-eyed look, “ _the fuck_ just happened?” 

The Empress has the gall to shuffle about, awkward. 

“You said you didn’t want to die,” she says, meek and flustered, and you’d be a lot more horrified about that – she’s _the Empress_ , for god’s sake, she’s not supposed to be meek and flustered and fidgeting with her jewelry just because you’re glaring at her (and you really shouldn’t be glaring at her, but you just died, you get to be pissed for a little bit, and if the universe doesn’t like it, it can _suck it_ ) – but lest you forget it, you’re not dead. She reaches out to grab your hands, anxiously. “I know it was a terrible moment to ask, and this is probably not what you wanted, and I’m so sorry, Agness, but you said—“ 

“That I didn’t want to die,” you say, sitting up properly because this whole thing about half lying on the Empress lap is not okay, so not okay you might need a moment or two alone to melt into profanity to express how not okay it is, but you don’t have a moment now, and the panic can wait until you’re home and alone and ready to fall apart without anyone having to watch. “Mind, that hasn’t changed and I can’t help but stress how happy I am to not be dead, but still. _What the fuck?_ ” 

“You were _dying_ ,” Feferi – she’s Feferi now, clearly, too rattled and too fretful to be the Empress, and you thank the stars that you can compartmentalize as well as you do, because otherwise this friendship would be doomed from the start – looks like she’s about to cry. “And I was just going to do it, but I asked first, and now in retrospect that’s so stupid of me, of course you’d say you didn’t want to die, no one wants to die, but I’ve done it now and there’s no going back, and oh dear god, will you ever forgive me?” 

You decide to stand up, because you’re gonna need to pace, you can tell. Pacing keeps you from stabbing people you really shouldn’t stab. Pacing is the only reason you’re still alive. Well, that and the fact the Empress magically made you not dead, somehow. 

“That depends,” you say, slow and measured and trying very hard not to panic given that Feferi is clearly not helping on that department, “because I’m all up for not being dead, you don’t even know how happy I am not to be dead, but what exactly did you do to not make me dead and why would I not be happy about it?” 

“I can give Life to people,” she says, sounding ridiculously miserable for someone dropping a bomb of that caliber, and you wonder if this life you’ve been given involves pustulent warts or something. When she stops there, sort of caught up in the implications you’re not privy to yet, you clear your throat a little loudly. She startles. “Life, as long as mine, really.” She sounds positively miserable. “I’m still learning how to use my powers, but,” she gives you a hopeful smile, “but maybe one day I’ll learn how to undo it? Please don’t be mad.” 

You take a moment to process that, weight the consequences and implications in your head. Then you let out a loud, long sigh. Feferi’s still sitting on the floor, disheveled slightly from the rush about the whole assassination attempt thing and the strain of whatever her mystical Life-giving powers are. She looks unbearably young, that way. 

It’s kind of unfair, really, how young she looks; it makes it nearly impossible to be mad at her, even though right now you’re not, and you don’t see why anyone would be mad about _not dying_. Not dying is _great_. 

“Clearly,” you begin, calling forth patience you’re not sure you actually have, but you’ve gotten this far faking til you make it, and it seems dumb to stop now, “this is an issue for you. I’m not going to ask,” you add, almost hurriedly, when she opens her mouth, possibly to elaborate, “because that falls within the realm of too much information, and I swear to god one day I will call you an idiot to your face and then I’m gonna get culled and it’s going to be tragic, because I’m not really up for _dying_.” She chokes on a laugh – you hope it’s a laugh, it’s a bit high pitched and panicky still, but you’re willing to work with what you have and even with what you don’t by now, so there – pressing her hands to her mouth as if to cage in the sound. “And maybe at some point, I’ll be pissed at you, for the heinous crime of daring to save my life and keep me alive,” you use your Eridan-proof brand of sarcasm, just because you need it thick and heavy and unmistakable, “but until then, I’m just going to be really happy to not be dead.” 

There’s a long, awkward pause. 

"Right!" Feferi says, clapping her hands awkwardly and smiling that paper thin smile that always makes you close your eyes and do whatever she says, "this didn’t happen then." 

You stare at her for a long moment, before finally processing the words. 

"Like _hell_ it didn’t!” You snap, before you can help yourself, and wince as she flinches a little. 

"Agness—" 

"Lady," you start, then stop, then decide to hell with it and start again: " _Lady_ , I can promise you that totally did just happen." You glower a little. “I was the one who didn’t die,” you add, a little incoherently, “it damn well did happen!” 

"Well, yes," Feferi answers, somewhat awkwardly, and you hope to god she won’t start stammering, because a stammering, awkward Empress is about the last thing you need, "but no one needs to know." 

You stare. You always sort of hoped Eridan was kind of an exception, as far as highbloods go. You’ve certainly never used him as a measure to gauge other highbloods. But you’re starting to wonder if the oblivious, hopeful stupidity is a seadweller thing. 

"Stop making me think traitorous thoughts," you say, pressing a hand to your face. 

"You’re calling me an idiot in your head, aren’t you?" She asks, with that soft, amused tone of hers that makes you want to do traitorous things, like smack the fucking Empress upside the head. 

"I’m _not_ answering that.” You scowl. “And besides, this had to have happened, because I’m about to ruin someone’s day with sheer bureaucratic fury.” 

“But—“ 

“I _didn’t_ die,” you say, and it sound ridiculous but makes sense in context, dammit, even though she’s grinning like she can see right through you anyway. “And you didn’t even come close to dying, but not for lack of trying from slime dinner over there.” You nod in the direction of the pile of slime currently purring with post-gouging-on-morons-who-don’t-know-any-better-and-will-never-learn-now-because-they’ve-been-digested in a corner of the block. “That’s _not_ okay.” 

She looks young and stupid and you might seriously smack her one of these days, because she shrugs and smiles a little sadly. 

“It’s okay,” she lies, so transparently pathetic, you feel an urge to scream, “I’m kinda used to it.” 

You take a deep breath. Then another. Then a third one because this whole keeping panic at bay thing is taxing because you’re alive and you really shouldn’t be, and there are implications and consequences and you probably should be sitting down or maybe curling up in a dark corner to ponder when exactly you lost control of your life. But you can’t. Not yet. You promise yourself you will, though, and no one will stop you then. 

“I’m going to change into clean clothes,” you say, calm and controlled and totally not panicking at all, “and then I’m going to ruin a few people’s days, and I will pretend very hard you did not just said that, because then I might just forgo the formalities and sic my slime monstrosity on the people who are supposed to make sure you’re _not_ used to people trying to _kill_ you.” 

“But—“ 

“Traitorous thoughts!” You snap, turning around lest you give in and start acting on them. 

  


* * *

  


You get a pair of matching scars, from where you didn’t die. You don’t really notice until the third night after the whole mess, mostly because you make good on your word and take out your frustration on anyone available, mostly the palace’s staff. It’s been three sweeps now, since Eridan’s ship has been stranded in the home planet, and you visit often enough, because your Captain is terrible at hiding how much he misses your best friend. You don’t really mind visiting the palace, all that much. It’s weird, being in Alternia, after you left and thought you’d never see it again. But it’s nice, in its own way. It’s different from the tedious routines of a ship, and there’s something about the Capital that gives you an eerie sense of hope. Things are changing, in the Empire. Things were changing, already, when you were conscripted, but you’re living in the age of revolution, and it’s strange, to think about it, how people you know would be dead, if they’d been hatched just a decade earlier. 

But now your memories of the palace are tainted by that not-dying moment of fear and anger and regret, and you don’t know what to do with the knowledge to make it sting less. 

You have a nice room in the palace, mostly because Eridan’s almost in charge of it these days, considering how much he delights on tormenting the staff there since he can’t really annoy his own. But you don’t want to be there, between those walls. The ship is somber and quiet, when it’s docked in the planet, but even if it were dark and empty, you’d still find it reassuring. Because it’s yours, just like your sector at _Nova Pyxis_ was – and hasn’t it been a while, since you last thought of _that_ life – and you feel safe and calm, so perhaps you can actually look at the problem straight in the eye, instead of dancing around it by prioritizing everything else. 

Certainly, you don’t really expect to risk dying, here. 

But you also didn’t expect to risk dying, having tea with the Empress. At least not literally. (You die a little inside, metaphorically, every time she forcefully reminds you she’s not a mythical titan above mundane concerns.) You’ve got the scars that show you know better now, though. A star shaped scar, right between your breasts, and another one smack in the middle of your back, to complete the set. You wonder what Odessa will say, when she sees it, if she’ll be mad you’ve been branded by someone else. But now that you’ve raged and ruined several lives in your warpath of furious spite, you find yourself reconsidering what the Empress said. No one has to know, of course. Not the exact details. But then you suppose, you’re old – not that old, not yet, but old enough – and at some point someone might ask why you just keep going instead of kneeling over and dying like Russel did. And maybe one day you’ll want to, but you don’t now. You’re not done yet. 

And no one really has to know. Many things could cause the scars, and not all of it nearly as deadly as getting impaled in the process of botching up an assassination attempt on the Empress. You haven’t even winded down enough to start yelling at yourself over that. Secretly, you want to stay that way forever, because you’re scared of what you might find, bubbling in the depths of your mind. You didn’t think, and you should have died, like all trolls who leaped without looking first, but you didn’t. 

You _didn’t_. 

You serve yourself a drink and slink away to your armchair, enjoying the quiet while your Captain’s off back in the palace, tormenting your best friend and being tormented in return. The slime pools nearby, bubbling inquisitively every now and then, until you reach for the bottle and pour a shot or two into it. You think you could pull it off, going on as if nothing had changed, pretend nothing actually happened. You wonder how long it would take for someone to ask about it, and figure it wouldn’t be too bad. 

You should be more upset, you think, about the whole affair, but now that you have time and peace and quiet to really think about it, what you’re upset the most is the idea of letting it change who you are. Because you’re still yourself, no matter how long you live. That’s the only thing that really scares you, about this prospect of living this long. Because what if you live long enough to become someone you’re not? Then maybe you’d wish you had died, instead, or you would if you were still yourself, but you wouldn’t be so you’d be glad instead. You take another sip and try to stop making your head hurt. 

You wonder what Ellery or Russel would do, if they were in your shoes. But Ellery would be too unpleasant to risk gaining favor from the Empress, and you grin to yourself at the thought, because even now you miss the dumb fucking jerk. And Russel was never afraid of going, you don’t think. He always had too much aplomb and too much self-possession to worry about the things you mere mortals do. You miss them, though, both of them, and miss having them around to ask for advice, because they’d have known what to say, to either piss you off enough to forget the issue, or plant you back into reality so firmly, you might grow branches. But they’re gone, and you’re not, and you might be not gone for a long time – you’re making your head hurt, again – so all you have left is to try and figure out how to make the best of it. 

Somehow. 

  


* * *

  


“You know what’s the worst part?” You look sideways, smiling wryly at the Empress as she tilts her head to the side, as if to better hear your words. “I was already dying, before the impaled bit.” You sigh, slouching onto the railing. “Got into a fight with Eridan and everything.” 

“Oh,” she says, fidgeting with her bracelets and looking unsure of what to say to that. 

You’ve gathered, from bits and pieces and the fact you’re not an idiot, that there’s history there, between your best friend and your Empress. There has to be, with all the awkward pauses and furtive looks. You’ve never asked, and you hope you’re never told. Because it’s none of your business, really, and you’re happier off not knowing, you’re sure. But it’s still awkward, to try and have conversations that don’t end up triggering some unfortunate meltdown. It’s never happened, sure, but you’re not in a hurry to mess that up. 

“Now I’ve got to go and tell him that I’m not.” You twist your lips into a light grimace. “He’ll never let me live it down, having made him start mourning over nothing.” 

“I didn’t—“ 

“I’m joking,” you add, before she can go on and do something dumb like start apologizing. You might not survive if she starts apologizing. “Mostly. He really will get pissed.” She cringes. You don’t like that. She’s the Empress, goddammit, she’s not supposed to cringe or wince or apologize or give a damn about you, but you think that’s what makes her so good at being Empress, the fact she’s so objectively _bad_ at it. It somehow circles around straight into greatness. “It’s okay, I think he likes having reasons to get angry.” You snort. “Justifies his constant disdain for reality at large.” 

She laughs wryly, giving you a side-look that kind of certifies she knows Eridan well enough to understand that you really do mean what you just said. But then the moment passes and she sobers up, and though she looks a lot more like an Empress when she does, you don’t like it. Not really. 

“I wanted to give you a choice,” she says, all solemn and sad, “which is dumb, because it’s not really a choice most people can make, when they’re dying. But I wanted to give you a chance to choose death, if that’s what you wanted. I wanted to not make it worse.” 

“I would have died for you,” you reply, equally solemn but not nearly as sad. Because you’ve made peace with that, by now. Because it’s who you are, you suppose, and you might as well accept it and move on. “I can’t say I’d have been happy, because I’m not that good of a liar, but I’d have died for you.” 

“But you didn’t,” she adds, frowning. 

“But I didn’t.” You shrug. And after a moment of quiet that feels like a peace offering, you chuckle low in your throat. “So now _what?_ ” 

She smiles, thin and tentative, but despite it all, hopeful. You envy that as much as you hope she never loses it. Because if someone ought to have high hopes for the Empire, it might as well be the Empress. 

“Now you live on,” she says, with the reluctant certainty of someone who’s learned that lesson the hard way. “That’s the burden of the living. We have to live on and try not to mess up as we go.” 

The snort escapes you before you realize it. 

“Can’t help but notice the operative word is _try_ , there.” 

You hadn’t meant to sound so mean, but she doesn’t get mad – you don’t think you’ve ever seen her mad, really, which says something about her, even though you’re not entirely sure what – she just sighs. She leans on the railing, eying the horizon and the skyline in the distance. 

“When I figure it out, I promise I’ll let you know.” She smiles, self-deprecating and stupid and you have to resist the urge to tell her not to sound like that. “But that’s the best I can offer now.” 

You do something very brave, in the large scale of things. You lean against the railing and tilt sideways enough that your shoulder bumps her arm. She’s taller than you – who isn’t? – and stronger and better in so many ways, and you know it is taboo beyond everything else, to touch an Empress. But it’s hard to enforce taboo when she keeps acting like a lost admin fresh from the academy, staring wide-eyed at everything, unsure of what to do. So you bump her arm with your shoulder, like you would do to Eridan if you wanted attention and he was too dumb to see it – though it’s been decades now, since he’s had that problem – and smile a little shyly when she startles and squeaks. 

“I can work with that,” you promise, and the way she smiles makes it worth it, “really.” You shake your head. “You saved my life.” 

For a moment, it looks like she wants to argue about it. You wonder what would make someone argue against facts, but then you remember you’re better off not knowing, because she’s your friend but she’s also the Empress, and there are things you’re sure she’d gladly tell you but you’d rather not actually know. But then she blinks, slow and thoughtful, and her expression melts into hesitant content. 

“I kinda really did, didn’t I?” 

She’s very pretty, your Empress. Very dumb too, sometimes. But you like her anyway, not just because you’re contractually obligated to. You shove your shoulder against her again, not quite as hesitant this time. 

“Just don’t let it get to your head, okay?” 

She laughs, tension falling from her shoulders bit by bit, and you laugh too because this is silly and ridiculous and you might have honestly lost control of your life, at some point, to have ended up here somehow. 

Maybe, just maybe, it’s going to be alright, in the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Askblog for this verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com)


End file.
